


Chipping Away

by Thruterryseyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fainting, Gen, Hospitalized Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Panicking Dean, Pneumonia, Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Sick Dean Winchester, Supernatural Art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 16:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10857561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thruterryseyes/pseuds/Thruterryseyes
Summary: The events leading up to the night Sam left for Stanford. Pre-season one. This is the first Fan-fic I ever wrote so be kind, even tho it was some time ago when I wrote it. I'm told it requires a box of tissues. Nobody dies, just so you know. I did worse than kill him. Complete in this one post but multi-chaptered within the post.





	Chipping Away

Chapter one

The chill air roughened Dean's bare arms into gooseflesh and he rubbed them to keep warm. It had rained earlier and as evening had descended the temperature had dropped considerably. He couldn't believe it was the end of May and it was still so cold. Weather where they currently lived was totally screwed. He hadn't thought to grab a jacket before he had come outside, his main thought had been to just get out and now that he was out he had no intention of going back in.

The fight had started at dinner, almost from the moment he had walked in the door, tired from the job he had taken loading boxes at a local warehouse to help bring in some much needed cash and had been going on for at least an hour. He sat on the steps of the shabby rent house, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his arms and listened to the shouting coming from behind him. He'd had a headache all day and the achy sensation that had settled on him in the last few hours told him he was sure as shit coming down with something. The short circuiting sensation in his head told him he was developing a fever. Figured, everyone else at the warehouse had the flu, why not him. What a perfect end to this fucking day. He sighed and closed his eyes, flinching as a crash told him someone, probably Sam, had knocked over a chair to emphasize a point. John Winchester's voice rose in response.

"You have responsibility to this family, Sam! Are you gonna just forget I exist? That Dean exists? Is that how you want it!"

Dean groaned inwardly at being used, again, as a weapon of guilt, flung God only knew how many times at Sam only to be deflected once more by Sam's determination to escape the life he had been born into.

"No, of course not!" Sam screamed back. "I just can't do this anymore…this isn't what I want, it's what you want! Hell, I guess it's what Dean must want to, cause he sure never argues about it. You must love that, at least one of your fucking soldiers turned out right!"

That pushed Dean to his feet, his own anger bringing heat to his face. Dammit! Sam had no right to say that stuff…. his fists clenched and then relaxed just as suddenly. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew Sam didn't mean it, he was just looking for something to strike back at their father with, but Sam had no idea which target he was really hitting.

Nerves endings jangling, Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and moved farther away, into the darkness, grateful the house was fairly secluded and there would be no nosy neighbors trying to find out what was going on.

Sam and Dad seemed to be fighting more and more lately. They had never really seen eye to eye after Sam had reached a certain age and had started questioning….everything. He still researched for them, accompanied them on their hunting trips, acted as backup and front man. Without fear, Dean gave Sam his back and never doubted he'd be there for him. But when the hunt was over he knew Sam didn't feel the thrill of the battle, the sensation of fighting against an enemy almost no one else was aware existed. He saw only the bruises, the torn flesh, their bodies beaten down to the ground. The constant fear that sometime one of them would go down and never get up again. All in what had become to him an empty, endless search for something had burned 20 years of their lives away with still nothing to show for it.

When the fighting had first started Dean had tried to step in and keep things calm, and for a while it had worked. He never knew what was going to set Sam and his Dad off, the wrong word said the wrong way. His Dad finding the college catalogs Sam had forgotten to hide. Sam's constant criticism of their way of life. Dean's quick wit and sense of humor had often doused the flames of anger before the fire had gotten to hot. But as time passed, more and more he was pushed away as the younger and older man fought for control. He had tried talking to Sam, tried to understand this need of Sam's but they had ended up arguing as well because Dean couldn't understand it and didn't want it. Not because he was his father's perfect soldier, but because he believed in what they were doing, that they were doing the right thing, no matter how many wrong things they had to do to accomplish it.

It hurt him to realize Sam wanted to be free of them, wanted his own life, like everyone else. It was important for Dean to know Sam was happy and even though the thought of it killed him he was willing to let him go to keep from losing him forever if it came to that. No matter what Dean thought, Sam was not happy and it was getting worse. Speaking of this to his father had only thrown more fuel on the fire and put Dean in line for more verbal target practice.

After a while, he finally had to walk away and leave them to the fight. He couldn't handle being forced to take sides anymore or listen to the words father and son threw at each other. Always the same argument even if the words were different. The pressure was too much and he would have to get away until it was over. Always fearing the words that would end it one way or the other and take his world with it….

And so he stood alone in the darkness, on a street corner, a different porch, a fire escape, the places changed but didn't matter, listening to his family rip itself apart trying to find a way to stay together.

A misty rain began to softly patter against his face, pushed along by the freshening wind. He sighed and shook his head, shivering uncontrollably. His t-shirt was quickly soaked by the fine moisture and he could feel his jeans dragging against his legs as they also soaked up the rain. His wide green eyes stared at the lights from the distance, blinking as the rain gathered on his lashes and ran slowly down his face. He could no longer make out the words being shouted, he didn't realize he had wandered so far from the house. God, he was freezing and his joints ached. All wanted now was for the war to be over so he could choke down some aspirin and go to bed. Tomorrow Sam and John would be speaking again but another section of rocky road would have been built between them.

For a moment he thought about turning his face to the sky, opening his mouth and just letting himself drown. He didn't though. Finding thoughts like that moving across his mind scared him. The concept of the act did not scare him, but the appeal of blessed release teased and tantalized him sometimes and that did scare him. Boarded up in his mind, along with so many other broken pieces of him, where no one would ever find it, was the memory of the taste of an oiled gun barrel against his tongue and the feel of the tension in a trigger he had wanted at the time, so desperately to pull.

He growled at himself to chase the unwanted thoughts away and blew into his wet hands, glancing back at the house as the front door opened in a sudden rectangle of light spilling across the rickety porch and into the front yard. He was beyond its reaches and stayed where he was, arms hugging his soggy t-shirt to his body, shivering harder now. A figure stomped out of the doorway, crossed the porch and jumped into the black truck parked next to the house. The truck door slammed shut loudly, the headlights flared on and the truck blasted out of the yard in a spray of dirt and gravel. Well, he thought, at least that's over for tonight. The front door stayed open.

Dean wiped his face off with a shaking hand, even though the rain re-wet it almost instantly. He could hear his teeth rattling together and couldn't control their chattering. Reluctantly, he knew he needed to get in the house and get some dry clothes on. As this thought wandered across his mind another figure stepped into the doorway and was framed by the light. Dean paused, curious. The short circuiting sensation hit his brain again and he shook his head, scattering water from his short brown hair.

"Dean! Are you out there?" Sam called. He walked to the end of the porch and saw Dean's beloved Impala sitting in the grass. Sam walked to the rail and looked out into the darkness.

"Dean?" He finally made out Dean's hunched figure near the trees. "What the hell are you doing out there?" He sounded irritated and Dean wasn't really in the mood to be the second act of the evening's performance. He stayed put.

Sam jumped off the porch and jogged through the feathery rain to where Dean was standing.

"What are you doing, man? It's raining and you don't even have a jacket!"

Dean shrugged. "Just getting some fresh air." He replied, forcing the words out without stuttering. "I didn't want to interrupt you and D-dad." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice or the shake this time.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, Dad went to town to see Jack and Johnny." He didn't even try to hide his contempt and anger. "I don't think he'll be back for a while. Come on." He reached out toward Dean. Dean stepped away rubbing his wet arms. He was cold as hell but couldn't make himself walk toward the house with Sam.

"Maybe if you'd lay off he wouldn't have to d-do that." Dean replied tightly, unable to stop himself.

Sam snorted and tossed his long and now wet hair back. "Gimme a break, Dean, I didn't say squat to him tonight…"

"Well, something started it! And it d-damn sure wasn't m-me." Dean snapped.

"No, it's never you!" Sam yelled back to Dean's surprise. "You always manage to disappear when I could use some support from you!"

Dean jerked back as though Sam had struck him. "What do you expect me to do?" he cried, "Pick a side? Fine, Sammy, whose side should I pick!" Dean raised his hands and made fists. "I am so g-goddamn tired of you and Dad using me like a rope in some stupid game of t-tug of war!" Dean started coughing, "I can't stand there and listen to this shit anymore. ok!" Dean was gagging now. Sam stood there staring at him while Dean tried to get himself under control. "Standing out here in the rain is b-better than hearing you and D-dad go at each other every fucking n-night!" he gasped out finally, bent over, hands braced against his thighs.

Sam opened his mouth and closed it again. Dean's unexpected gush of raw honesty had left Sam feeling hollow and guilty. He watched as Dean mopped the water off his face again. "What's wrong with you?" Sam asked suddenly, in a much softer voice. "Jesus Christ, Dean, how long have you been out here?" Sam was freezing his ass off and he had a coat on.

Dean shrugged and straightened slowly, suddenly very unsteady on his feet. "I dunno…"

Sam grabbed his arm, shocked at how it shook under hand. "Come in the house for God's sake, Dean! You need to get into some dry clothes, you're gonna get sick."

Dean laughed a little crazily finally letting Sam pull him, stumbling, to the house. "Too late…" he mumbled.

Sam pushed Dean through the door into the relative warmth of the house. Dean stopped when Sam stopped pushing. Sam stripped off his own jacket and tossed it on the broken down couch.

"Come on…" Sam said, grabbing Dean's arm again and dragging him down the hall to the tiny bathroom. The bathroom had a small old fashioned gas heater. Sam pushed Dean down on the closed toilet. "Get those wet clothes off!" he ordered. He crouched down and turned on the gas, lighting the flame with a match from his pocket. He turned it up all the way and then faced Dean again.

"Are you outta your friggin' mind? Look at you!" He demanded, kicking the door shut as Dean struggled to get the wet t-shirt off. He was shivering so much his breath was jerking in and out. Sam reached into the shower and turned the hot water on. When he turned back Dean was trying to toe off the wet sneakers but was watching Sam through half closed eyes. Little slits of glittering green.

"What?" Sam snapped. "You want me to apologize for you being to damn dumb to come in out of the rain?" He threw a towel at Dean. "The water's hot, get in the shower. I'll get some dry clothes for you. Yell if you want something." He slammed out the door.

Dean controlled his hands enough to get his jeans undone and shoved them down, stepping out of them. He really didn't know what Sam wanted him to say. Whatever Dean might have to say wasn't going to make Sam feel any better, which would certainly make Dean feel worse. Dean fumbled in the cabinet but couldn't find any aspirin, although he did manage to knock several items into the sink with his shaking hands. "Shit….." he grumbled. He dragged off the rest of his wet clothes and stepped into the steamy shower swearing at the burn as the hot water hit his icy skin.

Sam stalked down the hall into the small bedroom he shared with Dean and started digging through the pile of clothes on Dean's bed. They didn't have a lot of clothes but Dean always managed to pile his stuff in a way that made it seem like he did. Putting them away was not a concept Dean was ready to embrace.

Sam attacked the pile like it was personal enemy, searching through it for some sweat pants and a shirt. Inside he was seething at what Dean had spouted at him.

You want me to takes sides, Sammy? Whose!

Sam suddenly stopped rummaging, was that what he and dad had been asking Dean to do? He and Dean had talked a lot… well, he talked and Dean had appeared to listen anyway, Dean knew how much Sam wanted to see what life outside of the black hole nightmare they lived in could be like. Sometimes, even Dean didn't really get it, he seemed to understand what Sam was saying, at least he was trying. Sam saw Dean as a tragic victim of circumstances beyond his control. Scarred by the horrible loss of their mother, losing his innocence and his childhood in one fell swoop. Dean had accepted his new role as soldier and protector and become exactly what he needed to be to survive in the graphically frightening life their father had carved out for them. His mind and body had thrived on it, but it seemed sometimes to Sam, that Dean's soul was lost somewhere in the maze that Dean had constructed brick by brick to save himself from facing himself.

I am so God damn tired!

Sam was good hunter, nowhere close to Dean, who seemed to have a natural ability for things violent, but pretty damn good nonetheless. But he did it because he had no choice. Choice was something he'd never been allowed to have. He had changed schools repeatedly because he'd had to, never created much in the way of lasting friendships because what was the point because he'd had to. He'd moved from one dump to another, squatted in warehouses and slept in the car because he'd had to, gone hungry, seen Dean and his father injured, broken and bleeding and sewn them back together because he'd had to. Why was it so wrong to want something different, something you didn't have to do, something that would make a real difference in your life, that would give you a life. How could he make his father and Dean…

Dean….Sam closed his eyes.

At least one of your fucking soldiers turned out right!

Dean, who willingly protected Sam with his own body if he had to, went hungry so younger Sam would have something to eat, lied, stole and hustled so they would have someplace to sleep. Had comforted Sam when he was afraid, teased him, fought and infuriated Sam into the man he was becoming. Had always been there, without question. Had stepped between Sam and their Dad more than once during their increasingly frequent shouting matches. Until Sam had shoved him back and told him to stay out of it and then called him on it when he did.

You always manage to disappear when I need you to show me some support!

"Jesus…" Sam whispered.

Sam started at the sound of a cough behind him. Dean stood in the doorway, clad in a skimpy towel. He wasn't shivering anymore but his eyes looked glassy and his face was now flushed.

"I, uh…thought you were gonna bring me some clothes." He coughed against his fist, wincing, and cleared his throat. His voice was getting hoarse and there was a dull ache in his chest.

"Oh, sorry," Sam said, grabbing a pair of boxers from the pile and a pair of socks rolled into a ball. Dean preferred to mate his socks that way because in younger days it made a better weapon to attack Sam with and had just become a habit. And it still occasionally made a good weapon. "Here." He handed the bundle to Dean as he came slowly into the room and moved the rest of Dean's clothes off the bed, jerking down the blankets.

Dean dropped the towel and pulled on the boxers. Sam ignored Dean's nakedness, they spent to much together time in cramped quarters and helping to repair each others injured bodies to indulge in false modesty. Dean pulled the sweatpants on with a visible effort and sat down on the side of the bed picking up the t-shirt.

"Dean, you look like crap," Sam stated flatly watching Dean rubbing his eyes. "If you were sick why didn't you say so when you got home?" What a stupid question, Sam thought, you know why.

Dean squinted up at Sam sideways as he pulled the t-shirt over his head. "It's not a big deal, Sam." He said. "Besides, you and Dad were busy when I got home. Didn't seem like the time t's the flu or something, everyone at work's got it. No big deal."

Sam made a frustrated noise. "It is a big deal, Dean!" he spat. "You standing outside in the freezing rain for an hour because you'd rather do that than listen to us fighting again is a big deal. You're hurting yourself because of us…."

Dean made a face and rolled his eyes. Now that he wasn't freezing to death, he was so not in the mood for Sam's game of "how do you feel about that." Sam had caught him off guard in a bad moment outside and he'd shot his mouth off.

"Dude, I could really use some aspirin," he said, as much to distract Sam as to ease his eyes from wanting to blow out of their sockets. "There wasn't any in the bathroom." He pressed his fingertips between his eyebrows.

Sam nodded, "I'll get some for you, how many?"

Dean held up six fingers. Sam made a face then but went into the kitchen.

Dean leaned over to put on his socks and was fascinated and repelled to discover the floor was suddenly undulating. He sat back slowly, eyes closed, stomach rolling and braced his hands on either side of his legs, waiting for the movement to stop.

"Whoa…" He shook his head. Christ, it was hot in here all of a sudden. Where the hell was Sam with the damned aspirin?

"Here." Sam's voice jerked him upright and his eyes snapped open to see four tablets in the palm of Sam's hand. Dean had actually wanted four but if he had asked for four Sam would have brought three, requesting six was guaranteeing four. They normally bought coated pills so that they could be easily dry swallowed but Dean was grateful for the water Sam offered him, swallowing the pills all at once in a quick gulp. He started coughing again, holding his hand against his chest.

Sam watched him frowning. "Dean, are you sure you're ok? You really sound bad"

Dean took another sip of water and shot Sam a dirty look. "I'll be fine, back off." Clearly the door of opportunity was closing. Dean set the glass on the table harder than necessary and pushed himself back up into the bed, propping a pillow up behind him for his aching head. Sitting up made it easier to breathe. He dug his hands into his eyes.

"Cut the lights will you?" He heard Sam flip the wall switch and even through his hands the relief was immense. A soft glow lit the room as Sam hit the switch on the small bed table lamp.

He felt the blankets being pulled over his legs.

"Better?" Sam asked softly. Dean nodded and then regretted it as his brain started short circuiting again. He felt the side of the bed sink as Sam settled onto it. Without thought, Dean shifted his legs to make room. He waited in silence for what was coming.

"Dean…." Sam began, his eyes and face were shadowed in the dim light and he wished Dean would look at him. "I'm sorry. What I said outside…I was way outta line, I didn't mean it…" Sam couldn't tell if Dean laughed in response or was fighting a cough.

Dean shifted uncomfortably, lowering his hands but keeping his eyes closed. "Yeah, I know," he said. "You never mean it…" He sighed and opened his eyes to gaze at Sam.

Sam frowned, stung. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean forced himself to sit up and narrowed his eyes. If he hadn't felt so bad he would never have said it, but son of a bitch, he was so freakin' tired… "It means don't shoot me and then say you didn't mean it." He barked. "You took the shot, Sam. On some level you meant it or you wouldn't have said it…" Dean looked around helplessly, hands held to his head. "Night after night I sit there and listen to you and Dad scream at each other, knowing there's nothing I can do to fix this. I'm part of what you want to walk away from so badly, how the hell do you think that makes me feel? Why does is surprise you so much that I finally can't take it anymore. Hell, most of the time you and Dad are so busy eating each other alive you never even know I'm gone."

His voice dropped and he cocked his head at Sam. "Sam, you always say you don't mean it when you know you've gone too far. Well, what you said to me out there went way the fucking hell to far and you know it!" Dean voice rasped angrily, the air felt too thick to breathe. His eyes flicked away and he sat back, scratching his hand through his still wet hair. "It doesn't matter. Forget it. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Sam stared at him. "Dean, I…I can't forget it, I can't just leave it like this. I was wrong, what I said was….Jesus, it was unforgivable, I don't even know why I said it. I was mad at Dad, I couldn't find you. Dean you've always been there for me, I know that. You've practically raised me by yourself and I am so god damned sorry for what I said." My God, he thought, how could he make this better. He had cut out Dean's heart and spit on it.

"Dad and I do put you in the middle, you're right, and it's not fair to you. I just never thought about it…..you at least listen to me, you try to understand, but Dad just shuts me out and the next thing I know we're yelling again." Over Dean, through Dean and at Dean, unintentionally or not. Sam's voice thickened. "I don't mean for it to happen…" Fuck, there were those words again, he thought.

Dean was watching him, he coughed again. "Well, you know what Sammy," he said softly, "maybe Dad doesn't mean for it to happen either. You guys are always so busy yelling neither one of you hears what the other is saying. I hear it Sam, but I don't have any answers for you." He grimaced and rubbed his hand over his chest, shifting again. The anger was leaving him but nothing was replacing it. "Sam, I want you to be happy, but why does you being happy mean everybody else has to unhappy?"

Sam sniffed and swiped at his eyes. "I dunno." He looked at Dean from under his bangs. "Christ, Dean. I am so sorry. I'm sorry you're sick, I'm sorry for what I said, I'm sorry what we're doing is driving you to this…"

Dean sighed again. The aspirin he had taken and his stomach were not getting along and he was feeling a little nauseated. "I know you are Sammy, I know. It's ok….really." He added at Sam's look.

Sam brightened perceptibly. "Listen,uh…. I know dinner was a bust. Do you want something to eat? I think there's some mushroom soup."

Dean shook his head. "I'm kinda not really hungry," he replied. He started coughing again, leaning forward. The coughs were congested sounding and made his lungs burn. He kicked at the blankets to get them off his legs, it was to fucking hot in here…

Chapter Two  
Sam frowned and got up as Dean kicked his legs to get the blankets away. "What's wrong?""Nothin'," Dean said shortly. "I'm just hot."

Sam eyed Dean warily. "You were freezing 20 minutes ago," He commented. He reached out a tentative hand to feel Dean's flushed face but Dean avoided him with a practiced twist of his head even though the movement made him slightly dizzy.

"I guess I overdid the hot shower." Dean replied. He sucked in air and coughed again. If he could just get his throat clear.

"Do you want something to drink?" Sam asked reaching for the glass on the bedside table.

Dean shook his head slightly. "I don't think it'll help. I just can't stop coughing." Dean wished Sam would occupy himself elsewhere so Dean could just sleep off whatever the hell was wrong with him.

Stop looking at me!

Sam continued watching him anyway. Dean stared back. God, what now? he thought. It had already been a full evening as far as Dean was concerned. A long, God awful day and no dinner, but there had been a show. Dean experienced a bizarre urge to laugh. He coughed again instead.

Sam seemed to come to some kind of decision. "Dean…." his voice trailed away and he glanced to the side. Sam was obviously in some kind of distress. Welcome to the club, Dean thought and wanted to laugh again.

Dean had to clear his throat to get the words out. "Yeah, Sam, what is it?"

"I know you don't feel good right now, but…I really need to tell you something." Sam began to worry the bottom button of his shirt, like a nervous 6 year old. The motion irritated Dean and he slapped Sam's hand away from the shirt.

"Stop that. What do you want to tell me?" He fought the next fit of coughing but lost. The dull ache in his chest seemed to be getting stronger.

Sam got up and walked the short distance over to his bed. He rummaged around under his mattress and came up with an envelope he flipped back and forth through his fingers as he walked back to the Dean's bed. Dean managed to quell his coughing fit and was eyeing Sam's guilty approach with trepidation. Whatever this was, he wasn't going to like it. His eyes met Sam's as Sam held out the envelope.

"What is that?" Dean wheezed cautiously. He reached out and accepted it with all the enthusiasm he might have exhibited if he had been handed a scorpion. He rubbed away sweat on his upper lip and slowly lay back against the pillow, one hand on his chest, although he found the touch oddly painful.

"Read it," Sam said, eyes darting from Dean's face to the letter and back again. Dean couldn't miss the sudden jump of excitement in Sam's eyes. Whatever this was Sam was beside himself over it. Dean swallowed with an effort and turned the envelope over, deciphering the wriggling writing with an effort. It was addressed to Samuel Winchester and in the upper left hand corner the return address read Stanford University. He could feel his heart start racing under his ribs. Jesus, tonight of all nights Sam decides to spring this on him?

Shakily, Dean pulled the letter out of the envelope, noting how limply it fell along the fold lines. This indicated to him it had been read many times. He glanced at Sam one more time and then down at the letter. The words were jumping around to much for Dean to really focus on them and he didn't want to read anymore after, "We are pleased to inform you that your application to Stanford…"

Dean's heart somersaulted and the blood left his face in a rush. For an instant he thought the aspirin was about to make a sudden unannounced return. He stared at the paper for a long moment. Sam didn't seem to notice Dean's reaction and was almost squirming from ill-concealed excitement.

Dean reached up and rubbed his forehead trying to gather his thoughts, which shouldn't have been so difficult. How was he supposed to respond to this? The only thought in his head, freezing his heart, was, Oh, God…..Sam was really going to leave…leaving them….leaving him.

"I got in, Dean. Stanford. A full ride. I start this fall." Sam's voice rang with pleasure, sang with it, even through the roaring in Dean's ears. "I wanted to tell you sooner but, there just never seems to be a good time. So, I'm telling you now." Sam sat back down on the bed and touched Dean's leg briefly, "I wasn't sure how you would react…" Sam laughed a little. "I guess knowing you're in a weakened condition gave me the nerve." Sam's large hazel eyes begged for Dean's approval, his consent to do this thing. Please, tell me it's ok they begged. "It's what I've dreamed of, Dean. I'm gonna go to law school."

Dean's jaw muscles clenched. "Sam this…" Shit shit shit, " this is great." He finally choked out. "Is this what the fight was about?" That would have explained a lot, although Dean thought he would've picked up on something like this being yelled over his head.

Sam shook his head. "Dad doesn't know. I don't know how to tell him. I haven't been able to figure out how to tell you. I didn't like keeping this a secret from you." Sam sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm not sure what he'll do when I tell him." Dean sensed just thinking about what his dad would do was overwhelming to Sam.

Dean's brows drew together. He had a pretty damned good idea what their father would do. There would be hell to pay when Dad found out about this. He could feel his own body tensing up at the thought.

Dean closed his eyes again. His head was pounding now. Everything seemed to be getting a little fuzzy around the edges in the dim light from the small lamp. He felt a little like he had a mild beer buzz. Almost like he was being wrapped in cotton. With an effort he managed to pull his mind together enough to focus on the issue at hand. It was like trying reel in bubbles. The ache in his chest was getting worse and he was breathing hoarsely through his mouth, lifting his shoulders as if that would get more air in his lungs. He gestured loosely with the letter.

Sam listened to how labored Dean's breathing was becoming with increasing alarm. "Dean, are you ok? You're starting to sound awful."

"It'll be okay, Sam." Dean said, not sure himself, what he was referring to. Hating himself for saying it, wanting it to be true, but knowing better. "You always were the smart one- " he coughed. "You should go to college. This is great. I- I'm proud of you." Dean's voice cracked as he forced the words out and he began to cough again, deep, wet, choking coughs. Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders and pulled him upright. Dean was doubled over he was so racked by the spasms, hands fisted against his chest, Sam's letter still gripped in one hand. Sam was shocked to feel the amount of heat pouring off of Dean. His t-shirt was soaked with sweat.

Jesus, what the hell was happening to him? Dean thought, feeling his body starting to freakout from not getting enough air. The flu meant puking, not this feeling like he had a steel band compressing his chest. His lungs felt as though he were starting to drown but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't cough the water out.

Sam reached out and put the back of his hand against Dean's face. Dean jerked away but Sam could feel the heat in Dean's skin and it wasn't just from the exertion Dean was going through. "Dean, you really got a fever! You're burning up!."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, ya think?" he gagged, trying to brace himself.

"Do you want some more water?" Sam rose and grabbed the cup from the bedside table.

Dean nodded, unable to speak. Sam left the room. Dean's breath sawed in and out thick and noisy as if his throat was closing up and he was getting lightheaded. Small sparks of light were

flashing at the edges of his vision. Blearily, he glanced down at the letter he still had clutched in one hand and was surprised to see it was splattered with inexplicable red dots that were rapidly drying and turning brown. He rubbed his fingers across his mouth and they came away with red spittle on them and he could taste it now in the back of his throat. Oh shit… he thought. He'd coughed blood all over Sam's precious letter. They were gonna love that at the admissions office.

He clumsily refolded the letter and stuffed it back in, smearing the envelope with more red from his fingers. He leaned over and crammed the envelope in the pocket of his jacket that was lying on the floor next to the bed. The last thing he needed was for Dad to find it. Dizziness swept over him, almost causing him to tumble from the bed. Acid burned the back of his throat and he retched weakly, leaving more bloody drops on the floor. He fell back onto the bed gasping, panicked. God, he couldn't breathe! Why couldn't he breathe? He clawed at his chest, his eyes slowly fluttering closed.

Dimly, in some still cognizant part of his brain he recognized the sudden sound of the front door slamming shut. Absurdly, before the darkness settled over him he thought, Oh, good... Dad's home…

Sam could hear Dean coughing from the kitchen but didn't hear the front door open. He jerked around though when it slammed shut. The glass he was holding fell to the floor and broke, water and shards splashing across his shoes. Shit,he thought, shaking the glass off of his foot. His face tightened when he saw his father's stern form, clothes and hair wet from the rain.

John stopped short when he saw Sam. Sam straightened back up from reaching for the broken bits of glass and brushed his hair out of his eyes. John's stare was challenging as he walked to the table putting a small sack down with a clink of bottles banging together. Neither spoke. If silence could make a sound it would have been roaring through the room.

Sam felt his earlier anger rise up again but fought it down. Right now there were more important things to worry with. Dean's coughing had lessened some, but Sam still wanted to get him that water and have their Dad look at him.

"Dad, "he began. "We gotta talk -"

John interrupted him. "Didn't we already do this?" he said in a hard voice. "It didn't work so well before it seems to me." His manner was cold. If he had been drinking he hadn't had much. His eyes were too angry. To Sam it seemed that lately, when those dark eyes turned to him they were always angry.

"Dad, it's about Dean – " Sam said, trying to get his father's attention. What had happened before, at least for the moment, didn't matter.

John frowned, looking around. Dean's car had been outside. "Where is Dean…?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Sam snapped. "He's sick! He's running a pretty good fever and I think something's really wrong with him….." He stopped as John turned toward the bedroom. The sudden clear sound of Dean gagging came down the hall. John glanced back at Sam and then turned and walked quickly towards their bedroom.

The soft light from the table lamp made it hard to see. John stepped through the door and flipped on the overhead light, calling the room into glaring brightness. Dean lay curled on his side, chest heaving as he breathed raggedly and loudly through his mouth. His eyes were closed and his fists were pressed to his chest.

"Dean…" John said softly, moving toward him. Dean did not acknowledge his father's presence. John's boot suddenly slipped on the floor by the bed and he barely stopped himself from falling. Looking down he saw he had slipped in one of several small red tinged puddles on the floor. His eyes darted to Dean's face. His lips were flecked with more red and where they weren't red, they were blue.

John knelt by the bed and cupped Dean's face in his calloused hands, shaking him. "Dean!" he barked. Dean's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. "Dean, wake up!" John shouted, pulling Dean's limp body up and shaking him again. Dean's head rolled loosely, but his eyes finally opened, fever bright.

He weakly raised a hand to his father's face. "Dad?" he gasped. "My chest…..hurts…..can't breathe…." His eyelids slid down again.

John grabbed Dean's hand and looked at his fingernails, the beds were also tinged with blue. "Shit!" he snarled. He turned his head to the door. "Sam! Get some blankets and get in here! NOW!" he thundered. He pulled Dean's body up on the bed. John could feel the heat from Dean's fever roll into him as he cradled Dean against him. What in God's name had happened?

"You can breathe, son" he said firmly into Dean's ear. Dean jerked against him, choking. "Shallow breaths, Dean, shallow." He said in the same firm voice. He shifted Dean on the bed so that he was sitting up, leaning forward and hit him sharply between the shoulder blades with the flat of his hand.

Dean cried out and started gagging again. John hit him again then twice more and Dean started coughing up some of the congestion in his lungs.

Sam had leapt to his feet from picking up the glass and raced back to the bedroom where Dean lay. Sam stopped when he saw Dean's face and the bloody splatters on the bed clothes. "Dean!" Dean's fingers were digging into John's shoulder as he coughed helplessly, but his breath was coming slightly easier. Tear streaks stained his face.

"Come on, Sam! We've got to get him to the hospital! He isn't getting enough oxygen!" John's sharp orders pushed Sam to action.

"Yes, sir!" he grabbed the blankets Dean had kicked onto the floor a short time earlier. He couldn't understand how Dean could have gotten so bad so stabbed him as he realized Dean probably had been that bad before but Sam hadn't seen it because of his own need to include Dean in his secret. He'd fucking done it again. He raced into his father's room and grabbed the blanket from his bed.

John slipped his arms under Dean's shoulders and knees and lifted him from the bed. Dean moaned softly and continued coughing. His head fell back and his arms hung loosely. Dean wasn't fat by any means but he was solid muscle and not a child. John marveled at the strength that came when you had to have it. He turned to the door as Sam came back in with his armload of blankets, numbly waiting for orders.

"Move his head so he can breath easier, " John demanded, hearing the change in Dean's labored breath as his head hung limply. Sam shifted Dean's head to rest on John's shoulder and draped a blanket over him, making sure to cover his head and bare feet. "Get his keys. We're taking the Impala." John said as left the room with Dean.

Sam grabbed Dean's jacket off the floor and grubbed in the pockets until he found the keys. To save time he jerked Dean's jacket on and ran after his father out the front door to Dean's car.

The rain was still falling but had changed to sharp drops rather than the soft mist from before and the air was colder. Sam ran to the car and unlocked it. His hands were shaking and he cursed the time it took to get the key in the lock.

"Get in the back," John said. Sam crawled in the backseat and reached out as John leaned in with Dean. Dean's clothes and skin were sweat slicked but he was starting to shake with chills. Sam slid back against the door pulling Deans body with him and settling Dean between his legs, hands gripped around his chest. He could feel how Dean was struggling to breathe, his head rolling against Sam's shoulder. John adjusted the two blankets over Dean's legs and Sam pulled them the rest of the way up. John glanced at Sam, who nodded. John jumped into the driver's seat, gunned the car into life and shot out of the yard in a spray of mud.

Dean was shaking uncontrollably and the heat radiating off of him was making Sam break out in a sweat too. His own heart racing, Sam pressed his chin into Dean's wet hair and convulsively squeezed the part of Dean's arm he could reach. Dean's breathing was loud in the car and the sound of it scared Sam.

"He didn't…didn't mean to…" Dean mumbled suddenly, reaching toward the front seat.

Sam caught his arm and pulled it back under the blanket. "Ssshhh…it's ok, Dean. Lie still. It's ok." Sam was unconsciously rocking his body in an effort to keep Dean calm.

"What the hell happened, Sam?" John demanded finally, looking back at Sam in the rearview mirror. "Dean was fine when he came home. He was okay when I left—"

Sam barked a short laugh. "He wasn't even in the house when you left. He'd been outside standing in the friggin' rain for an hour! How would you know how he was?" Sam's voice rose and fell, full of contempt, for whom he didn't know.. "Christ, Dad, I guess he's been sick all day. Neither one of us even spoke to him when he got home, so why would we notice something like that? We were to busy screaming at each other again." Sam bit his lip and stared out the window. Lights blurred past the window as they sped through the darkness. He wondered how fast his father was actually going. Town was only 15 miles away but the roads weren't the best, especially when rain slicked.

"Standing out in the rain? What the fuck are you talking about? It's freezing outside!" John's eyes in the mirror wanted an answer and Sam didn't have the nerve to deny him.

"Haven't you noticed that every time we get into it anymore, Dean disappears?" Sam snorted. He closed his eyes and laughed. "When you left, I tried to find him. He'd gone outside right after we started to fight. I told him to come in and he wouldn't…." Sam felt his eyes burn at the memory of his words to Dean.

"Why not?" John said in a softer voice. He slowed down when the car hit a pot hole and water geysered the windshield. They'd be at the hospital in less than 10 minutes.

"I said…I said something. God, I didn't mean it, but I so angry. Dean told me he'd rather stand outside in the rain and freeze than listen to you and me fighting again. That we never noticed when he was gone anyway." Sam's voice broke. "He said he was tired of being caught in the middle. That he was just…. tired of it. That we never listened to what we were really saying to each other so what was the point of fighting." Sam hit the back of the seat with his fist. "Shit!" he spat. Dean jerked, breath rattling in his throat. He looked up at Sam briefly but Sam knew Dean wasn't seeing him.

"He's sick because of us, Dad!" Sam said. "We pushed him to this! We're so damn busy trying to prove who's right and who's wrong we can't see what it's doing to Dean! He'd do anything for either of us and all we can do is try to force him to take sides! We're tearing him apart every time we do it! If we don't figure something out there's not gonna be anything left of him!" Sam clutched at Dean's arm and pressed his mouth into Dean's hair.

John watched the two young men in the mirror. Dear God, was Sam was right? He thought about the blazing arguments he and Sam had been having more and more often. Escalating in tone, subject and violence. John hated fighting with Sam, but, dammit, what was he supposed to do? Let Sam just go off like it didn't matter- like his family didn't matter? John felt his anger rising again and fought it down. This wasn't the time and certainly not the place.

His eyes were haunted by the reality of Sam's words and the knowledge made him physically ill. They had both been trying to force Dean to choose, unconsciously perhaps, but doing it none the less. It was as though Dean's strength would add power to each of them. And Dean did make them stronger but only when he was allowed to support and protect them both. Trying to make him pick one over the other-no wonder Dean had reached a breaking point. John felt a sick responsibility for this settle on his shoulders. He always assumed, since Dean rarely complained and never argued, that everything was ok with him. If he had a problem he griped about it, they sorted it out and that was that. It hurt and scared him that Dean would do such a thing, endanger himself even unintentionally, because of John and Sam's incessant battling.

Dean was obviously deathly ill. If anything happened to him it would be as if John himself had put a gun to Dean's head and pulled the trigger.

"Dad, I don't think he's breathing!" Sam's panicked voice shot through John's brain. Sam was shaking Dean roughly. "C'mon, Dean! Breathe!" he yelled.

The lights of the hospital flashed up ahead and the Impala's tires screeched to a sudden halt in the turn into the emergency drive. John was out of the car before it had rocked back and into the emergency room, yelling to anyone for a doctor and a gurney.

"My son is dying!"

Chapter Three

Sam had been frightened and bewildered by the sudden flurry of activity that had ripped Dean out of his arms and into the hands of strangers. Only John pulling Sam aside had allowed them to take Dean.

Dean had been swiftly removed from the car and placed on a gurney. An oxygen mask was put over his ashen face as ER staff had rushed him inside the hospital, leaving John and Sam to trail in their wake. After a few swiftly asked questions from the nurse were answered, any allergies, medications he was taking, etc., they were left alone.

John had tried to go into the exam room but had been stopped by a small woman with brown hair tied back into a bun. Her head barely came to John's chest.

"I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to wait out here and let the doctor work. We'll let you know his condition as soon as there is anything to tell." John's eyes shot to the room they had taken Dean into.

"No!" Sam said, pushing forward. "We need to be with him—he hates hospitals!" His eyes were frantic. Dean did hate hospitals. The reasons were plainly shown on his young, scarred body, shown on all of their bodies, for that matter.

"Please, gentlemen," She continued in a softer voice. "I understand you want to be with him, but he's being well taken care of, I promise you." She gestured at the waiting room. "Sit down. We can get you both something to drink and there are some forms the office manager will need you to fill out."

John looked on the verge of arguing. Finally, he took Sam's arm and pulled him gently toward the waiting area. "Come on, Sam. All we can do is wait." Sam reluctantly accompanied him and they both sank into the uncomfortable chairs. Sam was watching his father's face. John's eyes were glued to the exam room door.

After a few minutes, Sam ventured, "He'll be okay." He tried to say it with confidence. But Dean had looked so bad. "This is Dean. He'll beat this." They had all been in the hospital numerous times for many injuries. It was their second most popular family activity. Then there were all the many times they had tended their own hurts, but he had never seen this look on John Winchester's face before. "There's nothing we can do for him right now." He stopped as a bulky piece of equipment was hurried past them and rolled into the room with Dean.

John swallowed and slowly shook his head. "I know Sam, but this time—" John dropped his face in his hands. "God, Sam, this is my fault. You were right. I never realized-" Then Sam suddenly recognized the look. Guilt. His dad felt guiltybecause Dean was sick. The knowledge shocked him.

Sam's eyes widened. "Dad, I never said this was your fault," he said. "At least, not all of it," he corrected. "I'm just as much to blame as you. We've both been making it harder on him than it had to be." Sam leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. His long brown hair hung over his eyes. "Hell, he never says anything, lets anyone in…" Sam cleared his throat. "How were we supposed to know?" He sniffed and swiped the heel of his hand across his eyes. You know Dean, his mind whispered, he would never tell, no matter how much he hurt.

John raised his head, taking a deep breath and rubbed at his temple. He patted Sam on the leg twice. "Dean's always kept his feelings to himself. Even when he was a little kid I never knew what he was thinking." He made a small sound that might have been soft laughter. "But he wasn't always such a smart mouth." Sam smiled at that. "He always did what I asked him to, though." Eyes back to the door.

Sam stared at the floor. Black and white swirls with tiny red flecks. His heart chilled. "Dad…I know I'm not making things easier for you…" he began.

John glanced at him and shook his head again. "Let's not start this now. Dean doesn't need us doing this." He eyes swept to the exam room

"Dad it's because of Dean I have to. We can't keep going on this way, what we're doing to each other, to him….." Sam's hands flopped between his knees.

"I understand what you're saying, Sam." John's voice was harder than he meant it to be. "But right now all I care about is making sure Dean will be all right. Everything else comes second to that. Anything you and I may have to say to each other we can say later." John's voice shook slightly and he met Sam's eyes. "Please."

Sam looked up in surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard his dad say please. He bit his lip, but nodded, sighing. "Sure, Dad, we can talk later. You're right." He pushed his hair out of his eyes and joined his dad staring at the door.

A woman approached them with a clipboard full of papers. "Mr. Winchester?" Sam and John's heads both jerked up. She found their matching stares slightly unsettling. "I have some forms that we need filled out." She held out the clipboard and a pen. "We need it for admission."

John just kept gazing at her. Sam finally took the clipboard and pen. "I'll do it," he told his father. She gave Sam a tight smile, as though it tasted bad, and walked back to her cubicle.

Sam read the questions and started filling in the blanks. Her knew all the information, when to lie, when to tell the truth, what mattered and what didn't. When he was done he handed it to John to sign and carried it back to the woman behind the counter.

Time passed and it seemed like the staff had forgotten them. A few people came and went in the ER, a broken arm, a minor car wreck. Nothing special. Medical personnel moved in and out of Dean's room but no one stopped to talk to them. John and Sam drank countless cups of coffee and were so wired after a while they jumped at every sound. John had been getting up, pacing, sitting down and getting up to pace again with such regularity that Sam decided wearily, if his dad tried to go back into the exam room again he wasn't going to stop him this time.

They both jumped when the exam room door burst open and the gurney Dean was lying on was pushed out, surrounded by several nurses. Bags and bottles hung from racks on the bed, tubes leading from them to his arms. A ventilator covered the lower half of his face. One of the nurses pushed the breathing apparatus alongside the bed. John and Sam leapt to their feet and rushed over to Dean. His chest rose and fell in time to the machine. Sweat shone on his face but his color seemed a little better. The nurses paused only briefly then moved toward the elevators at the end of the hall. John turned to stop them. He just wanted to see his son. Sam watched them go by, face stricken. Dean looked awful. God, he wasn't even breathing on his own.

A hand fell on John's arm and the doctor, a young man with five o'clock shadow, smiled at him. His scrubs had blood splattered on them and John knew it was from Dean

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, I know you want to see your son but we finally got him stabilized and we need to get him to ICU as quickly as we can. I swear, you can see him shortly but we need to talk first." Sam and John looked at each other and some of the color left John's face. Reluctantly, he and Sam accompanied the young doctor, his tag said his name was Dennison, back to the waiting room. They sat back down, both more edgy than before and John showing it as his fingers dug into his knees.

"Will he be all right?" John said point blank.

Dr. Dennison blinked. "Your son has severe bacterial pneumonia in both lungs. His lungs are filled with fluid. We had to intubate him and put him on a ventilator because he couldn't breathe on his own. He was fighting us the whole time to the point that we had to sedate him." Dennison smiled. "He's a fighter, Mr. Winchester, I'll say that for him."

Sam's mouth quirked in a small smile and he glanced at his father. Dean was a fighter all right.

Even if he was fighting against what was best for him.

"Will he be all right?" John repeated.

"I won't lie to you, Mr. Winchester, your son is very ill. Pneumonia can strike very quickly. In someone as young as—," Dennison consulted his notes, "as Dean, it usually occurs because the patient was already in a weakened state. Dean doesn't have any immuno-deficiency problems does he? Aids –."

"No!" John barked in outrage. Sam and the doctor jerked back.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester, we have to ask." Dennison swallowed. "Has he been ill recently? The flu?"

"He wasn't feeling well today." Sam put in glancing at John., "He said he thought he had the flu. But he had to be outside a lot today, in the rain…."

"Will he be all right!" John demanded, face darkening

Dennison nodded, becoming unnerved at the man's intensity. "He's running a very high fever and he's severely dehydrated. We're pumping him with fluids and antibiotics which should bring it under control. He'll be in ICU at least twenty four hours. By then we can better assess his condition and possibly move him to a regular room. Barring unforeseen complications, he should recover fully. There may some lung scarring but we have no way of judging that at this point. His breathing concerns me most and as long as he's on the ventilator he'll have to stay in ICU. If he continues to fight the ventilator he'll have to remain under sedation. We'll try to get it off of him as soon as possible but that'll just depend on him." Dennison referred to his notes one last time. "Do either of you have any questions?"

Sam shook his head. John rose from the chair. "I want to see him," he said in a voice that brooked no argument.

Sam and John hurriedly made their way to the second floor where the small ICU unit was located. They were forced to wait again so that the staff could finish getting Dean settled. Apparently, even half dead, he was still a handful. By that time, Sam wouldn't have crossed his father on a bet. John paced back and forth in front of the double doors that blocked ICU like a caged lion.

Sam glanced at his watch, stunned to see that it was after 4:00 am. Had they been here for six hours? He rubbed his eyes, watching John's dark presence disturbing the staff. They would almost run past him whenever they had to go in and out of the doors, trying like hell not to make eye contact. Sam had draped his lanky frame across one of the couches, a safe distance away from John's potential blast zone and slumped there waiting.

Finally, to Sam's great relief, an older, heavy set nurse opened the doors and gestured them to her. "You can only see him for a moment. He needs to rest and we're having difficulty keeping him sedated. He keeps trying to remove the ventilator." She shook her head and led them through the dimly lit room to a curtained bed.

John hesitated and then pushed the curtain aside and stepped in. Sam followed, hanging back slightly, a little afraid of what he would see. The rhythmic sound of the ventilator pushing air in and out of Dean's lungs seemed loud in the overall hush of the room. The ventilator mask was secured around his head so he couldn't rub it loose.

"I'm sorry, we had to restrain him but it's for his own good." The nurse said. That's when Sam saw Dean's arms were strapped down. There was an IV in both arms dripping only God knew what into him from 3 different bags. A heart monitor beeped softly. The nurse smiled at Sam's strained look and patted him on the arm. "We'll take good care of him, sweetie." She winked at him. "Can't let anything happen to a cutie like that. What would the women of the world say?" Sam grinned despite himself. His eyes stung suddenly. Dean would have loved hearing that. The nurse turned and moved back through the curtains.

Sam stepped quietly to Dean's side and reached out but was afraid to touch him. He was not sure if it would hurt Dean. He finally laid his hand over Dean's and leaned closer. Dean moaned softly, restlessly rolling his head back and forth on the pillow. "Hey, Dean," Sam said in a hushed tone. "Can you hear me?" Dean's eyes fluttered but when they opened they were glassy and unfocused, they closed again almost immediately.

Sam smiled up at his dad. "His color looks better, don't you think?" He straightened up as John came closer.

John reached out to brush Dean's short, raggedly cut hair. He was still too hot to the touch and John took the edge of the sheet and gently dried the sweat from Dean's face. "Yeah," John replied. "It does."

Pulling up the chair by the bed, John sat down wearily. He squeezed Dean's forearm, massaging his own eyes with the other hand. He watched Dean's face for a few long moments, reaching out again to run a rough finger down Dean's flushed cheek. Dean looked small and young when he was lying in a hospital bed. He always did. It was as if the fire that made Dean, Dean, had extinguished itself and left only the bewildered boy behind. John cursed at himself mentally. He forgot sometimes, in his zeal for vengeance that Sam and Dean were his sons, not his soldiers

He drew a deep breath, swallowing. "I'm sorry, Dean," he began softly. "I know you've been hurt worse, but this is the first time you've been hurt because of me." John snorted softly . "So maybe this is the worst."

Sam had backed up to the curtained doorway. He had his hands in the pockets of Dean's leather jacket. Having it around him was comforting. It smelled like Dean. Cinnamon, coffee and a muskier scent Sam couldn't identify but was still Dean. He could always smell it, even if he couldn't see Dean, even as children. It made Sam feel safe just knowing by that scent that Dean was around, that Dean was there for him. He hugged the jacket closer, hearing a crackle in the inside pocket. Frowning, he reached inside the jacket and drew out a long white envelope smeared with what looked like dried blood. Puzzled, he dragged his fingers over the blotches and turned the envelope over.

SHIT! He almost said it out loud. His breath caught in his chest. In the quiet of the room it seemed the sound of his heart beating was louder that Dean's life support system.

"What's that?" John's voice made him jump guiltily. John's eyes displayed only the mildest curiosity. John's entire body radiated exhaustion, squelching any real interest. He eyed Sam for a second and then turned back to Dean.

"Just something I found in Dean's pocket," Sam replied quickly, stuffing it back into the pocket. How the hell had it gotten into Dean's jacket?

Dean moaned suddenly and started thrashing on the bed, jerking his head back and forth and arching his back. The heart monitor started beeping and an alarm went off behind Sam. Mouth gaping, he was roughly pushed away by strong arms as two nurses entered the room. John was also forced from Dean's side.

"What's wrong?" John asked sharply, watching Dean struggle. "What's the matter with him?"

"He's fighting the sedation again. Please, you need to leave now. You can see him again in a few hours. He'll be fine. We just need to get him calm." The nurse hustled them out the door and closed the curtain, blocking their view.

Sam awoke to the sensation of his hair being stroked. He wasn't sure where he was and he jerked up, blinking. Bright waiting room lights hurt his eyes and caused him momentary confusion.

"Easy, son…" his dad said. Sam rubbed his eyes. He had been sleeping with his head on Dean's bunched up jacket in his father's lap. "Are you ok?" John was still tired but there was a little relief in his eyes.

"I… yeah, when did I fall asleep?" Sam shook his head and tried to calm his heart beat. He felt gritty and stiff. Stretching produced an array of crackling sounds.

John arched his back. "A couple of hours ago. You just sort of slumped over. Like you used to do when you were little." He glanced up at Sam, mouth quirking. "So, I just sat here, like I used to do." It had been a long night. Dawn was just beginning to burn in the horizon.

Sam's mouth twisted. "How's Dean? Any news?"

"Yeah, you were asleep when they came by." John took a deep breath. "They said he's resting comfortably now. He's still on the ventilator, but his color was better and he's responding to the antibiotics. They've got him pretty heavily sedated. If he keeps improving I think they'll put him in a regular room later today or tomorrow and then maybe he can go home the next day." John stifled a yawn and ruffed his hair. "He's going to be out of commission for a while, bed rest, the whole nine yards."

Sam nodded, relieved, feeling a weight lift. He pressed his fingertips into the back of his neck. "No problem, we can handle that. When will they let us see him again?" His stomach growled suddenly, loud in the quiet room. Red flared in his flat cheeks.

John laughed and glanced at his watch. It was a nice sound and Sam didn't get to hear it often. "They won't let us in for another hour. Maybe you should go get something to eat. You go grab breakfast and I'll stay here. Bring me back a sandwich and some coffee." He reached for his wallet but Sam shook his head.

"I got it. I'll be back in a minute. Call my cell if anything changes." Sam walked to the elevator and punched the button for the first floor.

John stretched again, monumentally, his own joints popping. He'd caught a few minutes sleep while Sam was dozing but nothing like what he needed. He moved Dean's jacket off his lap. The worn leather had made a decent pillow. Sam's head in his lap had been surprisingly soothing to John and he had taken to stroking that damned long hair without thought.

He never touched Sam any more, he reflected. Dean. either, for that matter. A clap on the shoulder after a good hunt, or shove to get them out of danger's way but nothing more. Dean wouldn't have welcomed it. In fact, he would have probably thought he was dying if John had bestowed a gentle touch on him while he was conscious. Sam had always needed more intimacy, more closeness. John found it difficult to give, falling back on his military training to give comfort and support. Tough love was easier. He couldn't help being glad and relieved that Dean seemed willing, no wanted, to give that intimacy to Sam, the intimacy that John, himself, couldn't give.

His sons had grown older and the love between them had changed with age, but John still heard it and saw it. In Dean's anger at Sam when he put himself in danger. In Dean's fear for him, his willingness to jump in harm's way to protect him. Even in Dean smacking Sam in the back of the head and calling him a stupid bitch. Sam was no different, but he wore his emotions where they could be seen, not hidden behind a facade of indifference like Dean.

John sighed again and rubbed his hands over his face. He understood how that façade was what had landed Dean in the ICU, under restraints, with a breathing tube down his throat. John accepted Dean's attitude at face value and Dean wanted so badly not to hurt Sam or John that he had ended up hurting himself. Son of a bitch, he thought, kneading his fingers into the soft leather of Dean's jacket. He heard paper crackle under his fingers and out of boredom reached in to see what was in the pocket.

Chapter Four

"Mr. Winchester?" A different nurse appeared in the ICU doorway, smiling. John dropped the jacket and shot to his feet. "Your son is awake and would like to see you. I think we can bend the visiting hour rules a little. There are no other patients right now-." She just managed to step aside as John brushed past her, smiled and closed the doors behind them.

Dean's eyes were open, a little glazed, but aware. With the ventilator he couldn't speak but he still managed to convey his extreme discomfort and unhappiness with his situation through his eyes. His hands were still tied down and he pulled at the bonds weakly, his eyes pleading with his father.

"Can't you let him loose now?" John asked, a little angrily. He couldn't help but be upset on Dean's behalf, even if he understood the need for such treatment

The nurse pursed her lips. "If he promises not to touch that ventilator again, we'll take the restraints off, but if he so much as tries to remove it…." She gave John and Dean both a look that clearly stated she wasn't kidding.

John leaned over and put his hand on Dean's forehead, still warm but much better than before.

"Dean, listen to me—no, you can't talk with that thing in—just listen. They can't take it out until you can breathe without help, but they'll take the restraints off and leave them off as long as you don't try to pull the mask off." Dean gave a muffled groan, eyes begging John, his body, out of his control, rising and falling in time with the machine. John brushed Dean's hair. "I know it's uncomfortable, but right now you need it. You're doing a lot better this morning. Maybe later in the day they can take it out. But you have to promise not to touch it, you understand?" Dean closed his eyes and he nodded. John stepped back.

"He won't bother it anymore. "

The nurse narrowed her eyes at John and then shot Dean another "I'm serious, here" look. Dean blinked at her. Finally, she reached out and released the straps that held Deans wrists down. One hand shot up instantly to his face and both John and the nurse leaped forward. Dean desperately scratched his forehead.

The nurse bit her lip and walked out laughing audibly. John grinned himself and sat back down in the chair.

The sedatives Dean had been given to keep him quiet were wearing off, but he still felt groggy. His head and chest hurt like hell, he was hot, and he hated the fucking pipe crammed down his throat. But, thank God, at least his hands weren't tied down any longer. The feeling of complete helplessness left him and he felt calmer instantly.

John stared at Dean for a moment, his face hardening over. Dean eyed him and sank back in the bed a little, knowing that expression all to well. Watching his father's face, his heart monitor's beeping sped up slightly.

John opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again struggling for the words. "Jesus Christ, Dean, what the hell were you thinking?" he finally said, banging his fist on the mattress. "Sam told me what happened. How could you do something so stupid?" Shit, he hadn't intended to start out with condemnation. "That's not what I meant-." He growled, trying again. Dean stopped him with a hand on John's arm, eyes imploring him. Their gazes locked together for a moment. John was his father. They had fought side by side for years, trusted each other. Dean didn't need to hear it to know what his father was trying to say. His hand tightened on John's arm and John covered it with his. John said it anyway. "I'm sorry, Dean. It shouldn't have come to this."

Dean's shook his head, his eyes starting to flutter closed. God, he was so tired.

"Hey," Sam's quiet greeting jerked them open again. Dean couldn't respond, so he raised one hand and waved it weakly. Sam glanced at John. "The nurse saw me and said Dean was awake." He came to the side of the bed. "I like you better with your eyes open," he commented. "You feelin' okay, there? Cause you look like crap." Sam softened the insult with a grin and shook Dean's knee.

Dean rolled his eyes and made an obscene gesture at the ventilator. His hand fell back on the bed. Both Sam and John laughed. "When you feel better," John said, squeezing Dean's shoulder, glad to see some of Dean's old self showing, "I'll let you take a shotgun to it." Dean made a soft sound that might have been laughter. He couldn't hold his eyes open any longer and drifted back to sleep.

By the end of the day Dean's fever had dropped and his lungs were starting to clear up thanks to the heavy antibiotics. He was forced to endure the ventilator one more night, unfortunately with the restraints, because, in his restless sleep he had tried to remove it again. The antibiotics made him nauseous and he was terrified that he might vomit with that thing on his face and choke to death. Sam and John had taken turns coming into sit with him, talking softly about nothing during his waking moments, keeping his mind off his discomfort as much as possible.

Early the second morning, he was given a breathing test that lasted for three hours. John and Sam had sat with him as he struggled to breath through the tube without the ventilator turned on. Every breath was an effort and he coughed continuously, which bothered Sam and John but seemed to please the therapist. Apparently, the coughing helped clear his lungs. Finally, at the end of the test, the decision was made to remove the tube, to Dean's great relief but with a warning that it would be reinserted if necessary. He still had to wear an oxygen mask but no big deal there.

Dean's throat ached but at least he could talk if he wanted to. Exhausted, but as happy as he could be under the circumstances, he was told he would be in ICU for monitoring the rest of the day and would then be moved to a regular room if he continued to improve. Now that he was free of the ventilator he didn't give a damn where they put him.

Even the bitch therapist who came in every 2 hours and made him breath into this thing that left him hacking up crap didn't keep him from getting some decent sleep in between her unwelcome visits.

Mid- morning of the third day, settled in his new room, Dean slept. Sam sat at the foot of the bed watching him. John had dropped him off on the way to running some errands with the promise he would stop by later. Dean's breathing was still rough but he was doing it on his own. Sam hated seeing Dean sick but at least he could be happy that Dean was getting better. Dean jerked suddenly and his eyes popped open, clearer than they had been for several days even though he was still running a low grade fever. His hand went to the oxygen tube clipped under his nose but Sam stopped him.

"Leave it alone, Dean," Sam drew his hand back as Dean allowed his to fall back on the bed. "So, you feel a little better? You sure as hell look better."

"Glad that…..God damn thing is…gone." Dean rasped. He choked and sat up suddenly, coughing deeply into a towel that was gripped in one hand. He cleared his throat and spit. That shit tasted awful.

"You want the bed up?" Sam asked, reaching for the buttons. Dean nodded, trying to get the fit under control. Sam pressed the switch that lifted the head of the bed until Dean raised his hand and sank back into the pillows, still trying to clear his throat. He grimaced and pressed his hand against his forehead.

"You okay?" Sam asked, concerned.

Dean nodded, swallowing with an effort. His throat was still raw and although he was breathing better, was still an exhausting effort. "All that…friggin' coughing gives me….a headache." He groaned. "And that shit they're pumping into me…" he gestured at the IV rack, "makes me wanta puke." He accepted the water Sam offered him and took a small sip from the straw. "Where's Dad?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged, "Said he had to take care of some stuff. He'll be by in a little while. We gotta get dressed for graduation and junk. Have to be there at least 30 minutes early. "

Dean took another sip of water, eyeing Sam's face. "So," he began, pausing to clear his throat. "I'm sorry I can't come to your…..graduation. I mentioned it to Dad… and he told me he'd kick the crap out of me….. if I set foot outta the bed." He nibbled his lower lip. "I really wanted….. to come, Sam. If I hadn't-"

Sam smiled at him. "It's no big deal, Dean. We're coming right back here afterwards. It's just a stupid ceremony-" It doesn't mean anything, Sam thought. It's a means to an end.

"It's not stupid!" Dean snapped. He coughed again, cursing. "This is important, Sam! You've worked hard…..hard for this." Dean wheezed. "I want to be there….for you!"

Sam put a hand on his arm. "Calm down, dude. Don't worry about it. I'll bring you my diploma tonight, okay? Just stay quiet. If you get all worked up they won't let you go home day after tomorrow. It'll be fine." He waited for Dean to settle back down. "You'll be there, Dean, even if you can't make it in person. You've always been there."

Dean grimaced, studying Sam's face for a long moment and then turned to the window. "Did you… tell Dad yet?" he felt his heart start racing again and unconsciously rested a hand on his chest. Did you tell him you're leaving us…for good? Leaving me…..

"Tell Dad what?" Sam replied.

Dean glared at him. "Don't be… an asshole, Sammy. You know what!"

Sam eyes slid sideways. "No, I haven't told him."

"Why the hell not?" Dean blurted in outrage. "You think….he won't notice when…you're gone!"

"If you don't know why, then you must have been living somewhere else for the last 12 years!" Sam spat, surprised at his own vehemence.

Dean sat back stunned. Sam's retort shocked him. He swallowed and his hands opened and closed. "So, what are you…gonna do?" He asked. "Just leave without a word?" His voice cut out and he took another quick, angry sip of water, annoyed by his own weakness as well as Sam's. He banged the glass back down. Sweat started to form on his upper lip. "You told me!"

"Yeah, I told you!" Sam sighed and grabbed a handful of his hair, just to have something to hold on to. "I told you because I knew you would be happy for me. That you wouldn't make me feel like shit, like I'd done something unthinkable. I thought you would understand. You know how I feel about all of this—."

Dean cut him off. "How could I not know? You never shut up…about it!" At Sam's hurt look Dean made a fist and hit the table, wincing when it jarred the IV needle. "If you're gonna leave, Sam…dammit…then leave. But don't sneak out like no ones…gonna care!" Dean stopped to get his breath.

"I'm not sneaking out!" Sam cried. "You were right, I have worked hard for this. But you know Dad, all he's gonna care about is the hunt! Not what you want and sure as hell not what I want!" Sam stood and paced the room. "I need this, Dean. More than you can imagine."

"More…than your family?" Dean asked in a low voice. The hand splayed on his chest turned into a fist gripping the thin fabric of the hospital gown.

Sam hit the wall with the flat if his hand. "Don't lay a guilt trip on me! I get all I need of that from Dad." He stayed facing the wall, breathing heavily. "I'm not doing this to hurt Dad, or you—why is it so awful to want more from my life than this? Are we supposed to fight our way through the rest of our lives with no hope of anything but going out in a blaze of glory fighting evil, like some God damned superhero?"

"We do a lot of good….Sam." Dean brushed his hand across his eyes. It was starting to shake. The room was getting hot and his head was buzzing. He started coughing again. Sam was to angry too notice, still staring at the wall.

"You and dad don't need me," Sam finally said. "Dad and I can't go five minutes without fighting about some stupid ass thing. Hell," he swung his hand at Dean. "Look what we did to you!"

"This isn't…you're fault." Dean gasped. He was breathing, short, shallow breaths. "Have enough respect…for him…to be honest!" Dean shoved the towel against his mouth again to muffle his coughs, gagging. Sam turned and realized how much trouble Dean was having. He hurried back to the bed, catching Dean's shoulders.

"Dean—Dean, stop…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. Please, calm down—" Sam reached over and gave him several strong shots between his shoulders.

Dean fell back , chest heaving. "Jesus…" he groaned hoarsely. Sweat glistened on his face. His head felt like it was going to blow apart. His heart had settled into heavy, throbbing thumps. He knew he was hyperventilating but he couldn't stop.

"You don't look so good, Dean." Becoming alarmed, Sam stabbed the red call button. .

"I'm….fine…" Dean gritted, covering his face with his hands. He felt nauseous and his head was starting to spin.

"No, you're not!" Sam retorted, hitting the button again

"Did you call—" The nurse walked into the room. She took in Dean's distress and made it to the bed in two strides. "What happened?" She demanded. She sat on the side of the bed and cupped Dean's face in her hands.

Sam stood back, frightened. "Nothing, we were talking…"

Dean's eyes were frantic and he was breathing in smothered gasps. She pulled the oxygen away and snatched a plastic bag from the drawer of the bedside table. She clamped it against Deans nose and mouth. "Dean, calm down, breathe slowly, slowly….in…. and out….in…. and out…"

Chapter Five

"Panic attack?" John said disbelievingly. "Dean had a panic attack? What are you talking about?" He towered over the Dr. Hendrix, Dean's attending physician. Hendrix, a short, portly man of indeterminate age and ineffectual personality, was trying to explain the situation without overly annoying John. Sam met John's stare and shrugged.

"What I'm trying to say, Mr. Winchester, is that something has upset your son to the point that he's spiking a fever again. " Hendrix shoved his glasses back up his nose and tried desperately not to show how much John intimidated him. "When Nurse Rogers came in he was hyperventilating. His body is under a lot of stress and it's important that he remain calm. He's done very well up to now, much better than we had hoped, but it's a fragile balance."

"Well, what the hell upset him?" John demanded, giving Sam another once over. John had just come up from the parking lot to pick up Sam and was on his way to say a few words to Dean when it appeared all hell had broken loose.Jesus, it was barely noon!

Dr. Hendrix spread his hands. "It may just be a reaction to his hospitalization. I understand from you that he has a problem with hospitals. His experience with the ventilator and the fact that the medication we're giving him is making him quite nauseous is enough to produce an episode like this. There may have been some sort of external stimulus that set it off, but it's just impossible to tell. If I may say so, Mr. Winchester, Dean is not the most cooperative patient we have ever had!"

John's mouth tightened, but he found he really couldn't argue with that. "Well, how is he now? Can we see him? Sam and I have to get ready for graduation, but I want to see Dean first."

Hendrix nodded. "Of course. He's been vomiting off and on a result, I feel, of the stress and the medication. His fever appears to be going down but we're monitoring him very closely. If his breathing deteriorates or his fever goes up, we won't be able to release him when we had originally discussed and he may have to go back to ICU. It would probably be best if you didn't stay for too long. He really needs to rest undisturbed." Dr. Hendrix stepped aside and gestured them toward the half-closed door of Dean's room.

Worry had settled on John's face. This was not like Dean. He gauged Sam's expression. "Do you have any idea what this is all about? You were here. How was he?" John's voice was soft but it meant business. He was no fool and sensed something was amiss here.

Sam, already writhing in self loathing, shook his head. "He was upset because he couldn't be at the graduation ceremony. I know he's frustrated with all this," Sam shrugged helplessly. "Maybe it just hit him all at once. He seemed fine and then he just started freaking out." You lying bastard, he thought to himself, you know exactly what caused this. Coward! Shame burned in his eyes but he wouldn't let John see it.

John stared at Sam a moment longer then turned and pushed into Dean's room. The lights were dimmed and the curtains were closed. Dean was lying on his side, head pillowed on his arm, the other draped over his stomach, hands turned awkwardly to keep the IV's from pressing into the bed. He opened his eyes as they approached but closed them almost immediately. His body jerked as he coughed.

John reached out and brushed Dean's leg with his knuckles. "How you doin' there, kiddo? They tell me you've been puking again. What gives?"

Dean shrugged. "Just a couple of times." He cleared his throat and coughed again, wincing.

"Or three. I'm okay." His voice was hoarse and dull.

"Did something happen today?" John was not comfortable trying to get inside Dean's head, but he knew it was necessary. After all, lack of understanding had led to this situation in the first place. Though it was painful to stifle his first reaction, which was to tell Dean to suck it up and get well so he could go home, he had to try. "You were doing a lot better this morning."

Dean's eyes, two pieces of sharp green glass, fastened on Sam who was leaning against the wall as far from the bed as he could get without standing in the bathroom. He wouldn't raise his eyes to meet Dean's. Dean rolled his head against the pillow in a slow negative answering his father's question. His shifted his eyes away from Sam. "I wanta go home." He knew he sounded like a petulant five year old but he didn't care.

John frowned, listening to Dean's breath saw in and out. This was so unlike Dean, he was starting to feel a little alarmed. "Dean, you know you can't go home yet. Day after tomorrow if you're doing better. You keep throwing up all over the place and running a fever and they're gonna keep you here." John tried to make it sound a little like a joke, but it wasn't happening. He glanced over at Sam. "Sam and I have to get cleaned up and get to the graduation. I know you're upset that you can't go, but we already talked about that."

"I'm not upset about that." Dean turned to John. "I don't think I…. really want to go, anyway. It's

not that big a deal." Dean's eyes settled back on Sam who was watching him now, tightlipped.

John's frown deepened. Obviously, something was going on he wasn't privy to. He wanted to know what the hell it was, but he didn't want to start something in front of, or worse with, Dean right now. He glanced at his watch. "Sam, we need to get going if we're gonna get changed and get back in time." He leaned closer to Dean and rested his hand on Dean's forehead briefly. He was definitely warm. Dean had always been a difficult patient, whether at home or in a hospital. John sighed, squeezing Dean's shoulder. "We'll come back afterwards."

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean replied in the same flat voice

John straightened and walked past Sam and out the door. "Come on, Sam. Maybe he'll feel better later."

Sam pushed away from the wall, taking a few steps toward the bed. "Dean, I—"

Dean's cold gaze never left Sam. "If you're leaving, then leave," he said, driving each word like a

nail into Sam's heart. Dean turned his face away.

Sam paused, could think of nothing to say. He left the room, walking slowly after his father. He was almost to the elevators when he heard Dean yell his name. Sam raced back to the room.

Dean was sitting up shakily, coughing. Sam paused in the doorway, then came slowly into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed.

Dean had to cough before he could get the words out. "I didn't mean that….Sam. I'm sorry….." He gasped, his body rocking with each breath. "You knock 'em dead." Dean winked and gave Sam a twisted smile.

Sam broke into a grin, his eyes blurring. "Thanks, Dean!" He clasped Dean around the ankle and tugged. "I'll see you later."

Dean lay back again. "I'm not going anywhere," he repeated, swallowing. Sam nodded with a small laugh and took of after their Dad. The door swung closed behind him.

Dean coughed against his hand. Christ, his chest was killing. His mind was aghast with the knowledge of what he had just done. He had just given Sam permission to walk out of his life. To take everything he had to live for with him…He pushed his face into the pillows, his hand coming up to cover his eyes. He lay like that for several minutes and when his body finally started to shake, he made no sound and even if he had, there was no one there to care.

Wearing his only pair of somewhat worn dress pants with a clean button down and tie under the dark green, satiny gown, Sam sat in his assigned place with the other graduates in the small class of 208. Around his neck was draped the tassels and scarf of the honor society. He knew his father was in the crowd of parents and relatives crowding the gym but he wasn't sure where. Dean wasn't there and his absence was more palpable than John's presence. Sam was truly disgusted with himself and the fact that Dean was so willing to forgive him had not helped.

When his name was called he arose and accepted his diploma. Nothing changed in that instant. He wasn't transformed into a clear thinking adult. The moment was almost surreal in its nothingness. He didn't suddenly have all the answers he needed so much.

All he had, was a ticking time bomb, covered with Dean's blood.

Chapter Six

Consciousness returned slowly to Dean as he lay quietly in the hospital bed. There was a slow rise and fall of his senses as he drifted in and out of sleep. It was peaceful, comfortable, no one making demands on him, no thinking, just floating along on the last vestiges of slumber. He considered the possibility that if he didn't move he might be able to stay in this limbo of not-quite-awake forever.

A thin shaft of sunlight lanced between the curtains and hit him right in the face. With a hoarse growl he threw his arm over his eyes. The freedom of the movement surprised him and he realized the IV in that arm was gone. He was now only tethered to one rack. When the hell did that happen?

He had a groggy recollection of some flurried activity around him during the night. His brain was a little fuzzy and he suspected he had been sedated again, which pissed him off. He had to acknowledge though, for the first time in days, he actually felt less than horrible. That, in itself, was worth a lot.

He took a quick mental inventory of himself. His headache had subsided to a dull annoyance. He was still wheezing but found that he could take a deeper lungful of air before the ache began and he started coughing. His stomach even felt better, allowing him to admit he was almost hungry. He couldn't gauge his own temperature but the room seemed fairly comfortable. His spirits rose with each noted improvement.

He lay there thinking for a moment, then carefully slid his legs out from under the covers and pushed himself upright. The cold floor felt good on his bare feet and he was only a little shaky

as he stood, resting his weight against the bed. Giving himself a moment to get his bearings, he reached over and jerked the plug for the IV out of the wall and draped the cord around the top. He grabbed the handle and dragged the rack with him to the bathroom.

The distance to the bathroom didn't seem very far so he was genuinely shocked at the effort it took to get there. He had to lean in the doorway to rest before he could reach in and flip on the light.

The lights were too bright and he squinted against them until his sight adjusted. He leaned over the sink and studied his reflection in the mirror. The dark circles he always got under his eyes when he was sick made the rest of his face even paler. He looked hollow and thin, stubbly growth darkening his jaw. He needed to shave but knew he didn't have the strength to stand that long. Still handsome, though, his ego told him. Chicks dug that gaunt look. Granted it was spoiled by the hospital gown and the fact that he didn't have the energy to spit. He splashed cold water on his face and let it drip back in the sink. His arms shook slightly as he braced himself over the sink. He felt so weak…

The next breath had him coughing again. He doubled over against the sink, hacking and gagging and finally fell back onto the toilet, unable to keep his feet. The inhaler he had been shown how to use was 10 feet away but it may as well been on the moon for all the good that did him right now. When the bout was finally over he pulled himself to the sink, clearing his throat and spitting what he had coughed up into the basin. At least, there was no blood this time. He turned the water on and splashed his face again, cupping water to his mouth to rinse it out, spitting again.

The rushed movement and the sudden coughing spasm had left him depleted. Despite what he wanted he found himself sitting on the toilet once more. He dropped his head to his hands and sat there, waiting for his heart to slow down and his breathing to ease. When he thought he could stand again, he had to use all of his upper body strength to pull himself back to his feet. The damned IV lines were tangled and he had trouble trying to maneuver around them. He braced his hands in the doorway and stood there, so wrung out he wasn't sure he could make it back to the bed.

The door to his room opened and banged into the IV rack, startling Dean. The morning aide charged in with a tray in her arms. Seeing the empty bed she turned toward the bathroom. "Oh, there you are!" She took in his strained posture and hurried to put the tray down "You okay, honey?" Dean had found her perky morning attitude annoying but he was glad to see her right now. She pulled the IV rack out of the way and took his unencumbered arm.

"I'm okay, " he replied, embarrassed by his weakness. "I guess I'm not as strong as I thought."

"Let me give you a hand," She was stronger than she looked as she helped him walk. He checked her name tag, as he did every morning because he could never remember precisely what to call her, and noted 'Carla' was printed on it. The trip back to the bed was a journey in itself and Dean was grateful to let the bed take his weight so he didn't have to hold it up any more. Carla moved the IV, repositioned it by the bed and plugged it in.

"There now," Carla pulled the blankets up over Dean. The short trip to the bathroom had worn him out. "Are you all right? Do you want me to call the nurse?"

"No!" Dean snapped. "I'm fine. I just over…did it. Really." Now that he was off his feet, he did feel better. "Just gimme a minute." God, he hated this. He really wanted a hit off that damned inhaler, it helped a lot, but would not use it in front of her.

"Well, if you're sure." Carla answered, eyeing him. He nodded, eyes closing briefly. She pulled the tray table over to the bed and across Dean's legs. "I brought you some breakfast. Are you hungry?"

He nodded again. "A little." He watched her as she fiddled with the various bowls and cups on the tray.

"Great!" She replied removing the cover over the plate. "You dig right in! You need to get your strength back." She raised the head of the bed until Dean was comfortable and patted him on the arm. "I'll check back later. Hit the button if you need anything. "

"Thanks, Carla." He conjured up a smile for her as she left. He grabbed the inhaler and shot a lungful of medicine down his throat as deeply as he could inhale. He coughed some more but the pressure in his chest started lessening. Man, that stuff tasted bad. He glanced at the tray. He really was kind of hungry, some food would get that god-awful taste out of his mouth.

He looked over the trays offerings, relieved that the thought of eating was not totally repulsive for a change. Bacon, scrambled eggs, toast and –oh God! Coffee! He grabbed the cup and swallowed a mouthful, closing his eyes and moaning happily. The coffee settled in his stomach and seemed willing to stay there so he decided to chance a bite of egg to keep it company.

Something suddenly dug into his back and he shifted around to see what it was. His fingers caught something hard and square and he pulled it out from under him. It was a small dark green folder with a gold tassel hanging from it. His mouth twitched into a smile and he ran his fingers over the gold embossed school emblem. Sammy's diploma. He opened the cover and a note slid out that he grabbed before it fell off the bed. Reading the words on the inside of the folder broadened his smile. Magna Cum Laude. His geek brother.

Pride burned Dean's eyes and he closed them, holding the little book against his chest for a moment. He wished he could have been there, applauding when they'd called Sam's name.

A shadow passed over his face as he remembered the secret he had been entrusted with. What Sam's graduation really meant. Sam would be leaving soon. The thought sent a cold sensation over him and he felt his chest tighten.

He took as deep a breath as he could, coughing a little and lifted the note to read. It was in Sam's precise handwriting.

"Hi Dean, hope your feeling better when you read this. You were asleep when we got back. They put you out again- "

Dean snorted.

"-and we didn't want to wake you up, but here's my diploma, like I promised. Dad and I will be by in the morning. They wouldn't let us stay. -Sam." Dean's smile was broken at the corners as he tucked the note back in the folder and laid it on the bedside table. He sighed and went back to his food, which didn't seem nearly as appealing any more.

Dean had fallen to poking disinterestedly at the remainder of his eggs when Sam stuck his head in the door a short time later.

"Hey!" Sam said with a quick grin, thrilled Dean was eating.

Dean's eyes lit up. "Sammy! Hey, man!" He put down the fork and pushed the tray away, even though it was barely half gone. The few bites he had taken were almost too much and he didn't want to push it.

"I'm a graduate now, Dean! It's Sam, okay?" Sam retorted with mock severity, coming into the room. "That all you're gonna have?" he asked, gazing at the remains of Dean's tray, sounding disappointed. Dean normally possessed a huge appetite. It was literally impossible to fill him up. "You gotta eat, man."

"You want some, help yourself. I'll be happy if what I did eat stays down. Don't complain." Dean cleared his throat and took another sip of coffee. The warm liquid eased some of the rawness in his throat when he swallowed. "Dad with you?"

"He's talking with Dr. Hendrix," Sam informed him. Dean rolled his eyes. "He'll be here in a minute." Sam's face grew serious. "You feel better today?"

Dean nodded. "A lot better compared to yesterday." Crap! That was the wrong thing to say, he thought, giving himself a mental kick, as Sam's face fell.

"God, Dean, I'm so sorry for what happened yesterday, " Sam gushed in a volley of guilt ridden words. "That was totally my fault, I shouldn't have unloaded on you– "

Dean's stopped him with a raised hand, afraid the words would continue to pour out unchecked and he just didn't have the energy to deal with this situation at the moment. "I don't wanna hear it, Sam." Dean replied, leaning forward. He drank the rest of his coffee in one gulp and put the cup on the tray. He pressed his fingers against his forehead, trying to frame his thoughts. "I think I understand what's going on in your head," he paused, one hand jerking open. "At least I'm trying to." He clawed a hand through his hair. "You gotta talk to Dad about this. The longer you wait the worse it's gonna be." For all of us, Dean thought.

Sam made a frustrated sound and grabbed his long hair again. "I know, Dean! It's just—you've been sick and everything—"

Dean made a face. "That doesn't give me the right to act like a jerk any more than it does you!" Dean slapped Sam's hand away from his hair. "Sam, you have to do what you need to, but you can't treat Dad like he doesn't matter." Sam said nothing, staring at the floor. Dean took as deep breath as he could and coughed. Subject change time.

Dean grabbed the diploma off the night stand and waggled it at Sam. "So, Mr. Graduate? How was it?"

"It was okay." He looked up from under his bangs at Dean. "It would have been better with you there."

"Damn straight!" Dean agreed. "And you know, you could have woken me up last night!"

Sam laughed and shook his head. "Dean, they had you so zonked a cannon couldn't have woke you up!

Before Dean could reply, the door opened and John entered. His face brightened as he saw Dean sitting up, obviously feeling better, grinning at Sam.

"Dean, you're up!" he said, pleased. Some of the tension lines left his face. "The doctor said you had a quiet night. That's good."

"I guess so, after they cold cocked me." Dean growled, still pissed.

John walked to the side of the bed, reaching out to feel Dean's forehead and face. Dean forced himself to sit still.

"Fever's down. How's your chest?"

"Better, I think." Dean could still feel his breath dragging but he'd had colds where he thought he had sounded worse. "It still hurts some and I'm still coughing a lot but the breathing is easier."

"Good!" John replied, he pulled Dean's breakfast tray over and studied it. "Is that all you're gonna eat?" he asked, frowning. "Are you still nauseous? They switched you to a different antibiotic. It's not as strong but they thought it might not make you so sick."

"No, my stomach feels better, I'm just not really that hungry." Dean admitted. Dean put the back of his hand against his mouth as he started coughing again.

John waited until Dean quit coughing, pushing his water toward him. Dean took a quick drink, grimacing.

"We talked about it," John did not elaborate on who "we" was. "And after some….discussion…. it was decided that you could come home today if you showed improvement. Which I would say you do."

"Great!" Sam exclaimed.

Dean sat up straighter, his excitement plain. "Shit, Dad, really?" He pushed the tray table out of

the way and started to get out of the bed. "Where're my clothes?" The sudden activity set him off on another coughing fit and he fell back into the bed.

John caught Dean by the shoulders. "Whoa, there, Dean. You haven't heard the whole thing." He waited until Dean's coughing subsided and he had Dean's full attention.

"You can come home provided you're willing to stay quiet, do what you're told, take your meds without any crap, do those breathing excercises and use that inhaler you keep bitching about." John gave Dean a gentle shake. "I mean it, son. I'm willing to sign you out, but only if you promise to do as your told. One step outta line until you're certified healthy and I'll toss your ass back in here myself. You're no good to me or Sam if you have a relapse and taking it easy will help keep the lung scarring to a minimum. No hunting for the time being. Sam and I can handle anything that comes up. Now, that Sam's graduated we're gonna be moving on once you're over this. Do you understand? "

Dean would have done anything to get out of the hospital, but John's comment about moving on sent a chill through him as he locked eyes with Sam over John's shoulder. "Yes, sir." He finally said, eyes still fixed on Sam. "I understand."

Chapter Seven

John signed the last of the release papers for Dean, including the AMA Dr. Hendrix insisted on, that released Dean against medical advice.

He pocketed the forms and returned to Dean's room where he was waiting impatiently with Sam.

Bundled in a heavy sweater, jeans, boots and his leather jacket to ward off the chill wind outside, Dean sat in a wheelchair fidgeting, clearly agitated. Being forced to use a wheelchair had grated considerably, but hospital rules, and John, had insisted. Deep down, Dean knew he wouldn't have made it under his own power. He had put on his best "Top of the world, Ma!" attitude but getting dressed had damn near killed him. Though Sam had helped him, while, of course, trying to be inconspicuous so as not to make Dean angry, he'd nearly collapsed by the end of it and had secretly been glad for the chair.

"Can we go now?" Dean asked the second John came back in the room followed by Carla. John found Dean's body language amusing but kept his smile to himself.

"Yeah, we're good to go. We have to get these prescriptions filled on the way home." He reached over and grabbed the inhaler off of the table and dropped it in Dean's lap. "Can't forget that." John said in response to Dean's obvious disgust. John followed as Carla pushed Dean's chair out into the hall and toward the elevators. Sam grabbed Dean's few other belongings and followed along behind.

"Sam," John continued. "I'll drop you off at work on the way home." Sam nodded.

Frowning, Dean said, "Work? What work? When did Sam get a job?"

Sam laughed. "I didn't get a job. I got your job. Dad talked to the warehouse manager and I'm filling in for you until your well enough to go back."

God, his job! Dean had totally forgotten it. The warehouse paid in cash and didn't ask a lot of questions. His family really needed the money, especially now. He felt bad about the added expense his illness meant even if it couldn't have been helped. Well, it was okay if Sam helped out until Dean was back in action. Anyway, they'd be moving on again soon.

Except Sam.

The thought choked Dean and he started coughing, wheezing in air to cough some more. The wheelchair stopped and John braced Dean with a hand against his chest.

"You okay?" John picked up the inhaler and held it out. His face meant business.

Dean, embarrassed, took a fast huff, forcing himself under control. He made a "Let's go," gesture with his hand and Carla started pushing him forward again.

John brought the car around and Dean was soon situated in the passenger seat with a pillow. Dean would never sit in the backseat unless he was unconscious or incapable of sitting up. He placed the pillow against the window and nuzzled into it, happy and relieved to be going home. He could hear Dad and Sam talking but made no effort to really listen. His eyes closed and he let the dull roar of the Impala's engine lull him to sleep.

He awoke to being gently shaken by John. "Wake up, Dean." John was saying it for the fourth time. He had parked right by the porch so Dean would not have to go far to get in the house.

"I carried you out, but I'll be damned if I'm carrying you back in. You've lost weight but your ass is just too heavy."

Dean rubbed his face sleepily and dragged himself out of the car with John's help. He stretched, looking at the house. Home Sweet Hovel, he thought. He took a cautious breath but the air had turned much colder while he had been in the hospital and it burned his battered lungs as he drew it in. It might have been May but it felt like November. He coughed helplessly into his hands, doubling over.

"Come on," John said, grabbing Dean's stuff from the car. "I want you out of this wind."

Dean hung back. "Where's Sam?"

John gave him an odd look. "I dropped him off at work after we got your meds. He'll be home later. You were sleeping, but we talked about it at the hospital. Don't you remember?"

"Oh," Dean said, face clearing. "Yeah, I guess I forgot. Sorry." He allowed John to pull him toward the house.

Dean walked slowly into the room, stripping off his jacket and dropping it on the back of the couch. He looked around with some satisfaction. Horrible as it was, it was still nice to be home.

John dropped Dean's prescriptions on the table and tossed the pillow from the car onto the couch. He picked up the inhaler and handed it to Dean. "You got two choices," he said. "The couch or your bed. Meds and therapy in two hours. I'll wake you up. You have to eat something because you can't take the pills on an empty stomach. You'll get sick again." John's staccato orders were as much for his benefit as Dean's. Giving orders and expecting them to be followed was what he was good at. And Dean followed orders well. It was perfect combination. Dean was dead on his feet already so John didn't expect any argument.

Predictably, Dean sank down on the couch. "I think I'll just stay here," he murmured. His bedroom was just too far away. He tossed the inhaler on the table, not wanting to bother with it. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. Man, he couldn't keep his eyes open. He coughed and cleared his throat, wincing slightly.

John went into the kitchen and returned with a tall glass of ice water and handed it to Dean. "Drink," he ordered.

Dean obediently took a long swallow. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was now that the IVs weren't hydrating him. John nodded at him as Dean sat back holding the glass. Turning on his heel, the oldest Winchester departed down the hallway. Dean's eyes were starting to fall shut. He took another drink of water before setting the glass on the table. Feet still resting on the floor, Dean pulled the pillow over onto the arm of the couch and lay down. A little later, he was vaguely aware of his boots being tugged off and his legs being lifted onto the couch. There was a soft whoosh of air as a blanket settled over him and was pulled up to his shoulders. He was asleep before he felt rough fingers brushing his forehead.

His eyes flew open and he jerked when his ear was violated by a hard object. John's hand gripped him on the shoulder. "Lie still." Dean heard a small beep and realized, stupidly, that John was checking his temperature.

"You scared the crap outta me," Dean complained hoarsely, pushing himself up on unsteady arms. He had that shaking sensation that came from being abruptly awakened out of a dead sleep.

"Sorry," John replied, checking the read out. 101.7. "You're still running a decent temp." He frowned at Dean. "It's time for your pills." He gestured at the capsules laying on the table and a brown bottle of cough syrup. "Eat first and then take this stuff. The doctor said steam would be good for your lungs. When you're done why don't you grab a shower? You can do those breathing exercises at the same time."

Dean nodded. "Yes,sir." He picked up the mug John had set down next the pills and sniffed it.

Mushroom soup. He raised an eyebrow in thanks to his dad for remembering his favorite. There was also a grilled cheese sandwich. He picked up the three aspirin and tossed them back with a mouthful of soup. At least the effect from those could be quickly felt. His head was pounding.

"What time is it?" he asked as John returned to the table where he was working on the laptop, papers scattered around him.

John glanced at his watch. "Going on 6:00. You got an appointment?" he settled back in his chair and retrieved his pen.

Dean laughed shortly. "No. I just wondered when Sam would get off." He drank some more soup and had a bite of sandwich, working his way through the pills as he ate.

John went back to making notes. "He gets off at 8:00 just like you did. He's catching a ride with someone." He paused, frowning and scribbling something down in his precious journal. Absently, he added. "I put some clothes in the bathroom for you."

"Thanks," Dean mumbled through a mouthful of soup. He poured some of the cough syrup into the spoon and swallowed it, trying not to get it on his tongue. He failed. Same with the second spoonful. He made a face and put the last bite of sandwich in his mouth to get rid of the taste. Not only did it taste awful, it did nothing to stop his incessant coughing. If anything, it made the coughing worse by loosening the congestion in his lungs.

He picked up his dishes and carried them slowly into the kitchen, pausing at the sink to look out the window. He could hear rain falling softly outside. He retraced his steps back to the couch, took a hit off the inhaler because he thought John wasn't looking and went toward the bathroom to suck up steam.

The shower turned off and John could hear Dean coughing through the door. It didn't last too long so John stayed where he was. Dean came out dressed in the sweats and black t-shirt John had found in the pile of clothes that he guessed was the clean stuff. Dean really was a pig sometimes.

John raised his eyes and watched as Dean moved slowly through the room. He stopped to pick up the water John had refilled and took a long gulp, carrying it with him over to the table. Sinking into a chair next to John, he sighed, ruffling his damp hair.

"You okay?" John asked without looking up from his notes.

"Yeah," Dean replied. "Just tired." He snorted softly. "Tired of being tired." He took another sip of water and sat back, eyes down. "Thanks, for springing me, Dad. I really hated being in there." He recalled too clearly how helpless he'd felt with his arms tied down and that fucking pipe down his throat.

John glanced at him. "I know, Dean. I just couldn't take you out until I thought it was safe for you."

Dean nodded. He reached out and pulled Sam's diploma to him, running his fingers over the cover.

John watched him in silence. As much as he hated the knock down drag out fights he and Sam had, he knew where he stood with Sam. Every other word out of Sam's mouth was 'Why?' He questioned everything, to John's complete annoyance. He never pulled a punch when giving his opinion of the way they lived and how badly he wanted out. Dean on the other hand, questioned almost nothing. He never had. If Dean had other hopes and dreams he kept them to himself. He did what he was told and did it well, ready for his next orders. He took what John and life threw at him and dealt with it in an almost robotic fashion.

Part of John was grateful for that unquestioning loyalty, the willingness to do or die because John had said that was how it needed to be. The other part of John that knew Dean was no robot would look into those enigmatic green eyes and wonder what was going on behind them.

What scars did his son bear, inflicted by both their circumstances and John himself? Dean would never tell, keeping everything that was wrong hidden from the world. John was certain of this even if he couldn't sense what Dean was thinking. John suspected even Sam, to whom Dean had so fiercely pledged his life so many years ago, probably didn't know what went on behind Dean's eyes. Dean, who had become a man at a very young age, was in so many ways still a confused, frightened child. What kind of man would he have been if this nightmare had never happened?

"Something on your mind?" John finally asked, putting down his pen.

Dean's mouth thinned into a line and he restlessly tapped his fingers on the diploma cover. His face was flushed and John knew his fever was going back up. "I need to talk to you…about Sam." Dean forced out, trying to convince himself what he was contemplating was not betrayal.

John's pulse quickened. "What about, Sam?" He tried to keep his voice casual. Something was obviously bugging Dean big time.

"It's just…when you and Sam start fighting…" Dean closed his eyes and made a frustrated sound. Jesus, this was gonna be hard. "He doesn't mean half of what he says, Dad. You know that." John's eyes narrowed. "He loses his head. He's just trying to figure out who he is, where he fits into all this…" Dean spread his hands. "I'm asking you to cut him some slack. I know he never shuts up, hell, I'd like to pound him myself, sometimes, for the assy stuff he comes up with- "

"Dean, I understand what you're trying to say," John interrupted. "but Sam needs to understand that we are both counting on him to do his job without question. Our lives depend on it. His life depends on it. I can't have him constantly second guessing me. He needs to realize how important he is to what we're trying to do. That his place is with this family." John, more agitated then he wanted to admit, went back to his note taking.

"Dad- " Dean tried again but John cut him off.

"Dean, there's nothing more to say on the subject." John ground his teeth together in an effort not to snap at Dean. "Go lie down. You need to rest. I can tell your temps up without even checking. That's an order," he added as Dean opened his mouth again.

Dean stared at John's head for a few seconds then pushed away from the table and got to his feet. "Yes, sir," he said quietly and went down the hall to his bedroom.

John took a deep breath and sat back, rubbing his eyes. His mind had not been on his research, but was running circles around whatever it was Dean had been awkwardly trying to tell him. Something was definitely up but he wasn't sure he really wanted to know what. Like it or not, everything that happened between John and Sam always put Dean smack in the middle. He checked his watch. Sam would be home anytime. Tomorrow was Saturday and John really needed to run business related errands some distance away. Sam would be home so John could safely entrust him to keep an eye on Dean.Dean had not reappeared after John sent him to rest. Time to check up on him. John rose from the table, knees popping and grabbed Sam's diploma. Passing the couch he also grabbed up Dean's jacket intending to leave both items in their room.

Going back to their bedroom, he pushed the half-closed door open slowly. Dean was lying on Sam's bed, curled into himself. His face still looked flushed but his breathing didn't sound too bad so John didn't disturb him. He tossed Sam's diploma on the dresser and started to drape Dean's jacket across the back of a chair. The sleeve was turned inside out and he stopped to pull it free. As he pulled it back through, an envelope slipped out of the jacket and fluttered to the floor.

"Shit," John sighed, threw the jacket across the back of the chair and leaned down to pick up the envelope. He frowned at the dried, brown-red blotches and smears that were scattered over it. He threw a glance at Dean's sleeping form then turned the envelope over, his breath deepening as he read the return address. Another glance at Dean and he jerked the letter out of the envelope and started to read, eyes darting over the words, face gradually setting into stone.

Sam slammed the car door as he got out of the old chevy, waving his thanks to Jorge, the driver, as he sped out of the yard. It was later than he was supposed to be home and it was getting dark but it meant a little extra money so hopefully Dad wouldn't be too pissed. Light spilled out of the windows of the house and it actually looked…..homey. He ran through he rain and up onto the porch, anxious to check on Dean. He was tired but the cash from the days work was a comfortable bulge in his pocket.He shoved open the door and shook the rain off his clothes. Stripping off his wet jacket and brushing the hair out of his eyes. When he was finished, he caught sight of his dad sitting at the kitchen table watching him, a black look on his face. Sam caught his breath. Shit, what now?.

"Dad? What's wrong?" Sam eyes darted to the door of his and Dean's room. "Is Dean all ri- "

John's hand lifted and he held up a paper that even from across the room, Sam could see was covered with dark splatters.

Realization his Sam like a physical blow and he thought he might pass out as the blood left his head in a rush. He had to put his hand on the wall to hold himself up. "Dad-" he choked out.

John got up and kicked back his chair. It fell over and hit the wall. "Go on, Sam!" John snarled, advancing on his son slowly. "Explain what the fucking hell this is! And when you were gonna find time to let me in on your little secret!" Sam had no choice but to back up as John approached, fury pouring from his body.

"Where did you find that?" Sam's voice came out strangled. Even with all the crap going on he couldn't believe he had forgotten that fucking letter!

"It fell out of Dean's jacket!" The fist holding the letter smacked Sam in the chest, knocking him up against the wall. "God dammit, Sam! How dare you go behind my back and pull a chicken shit thing like this!"

"I didn't want to go behind your back!" Sam yelled. His own anger overtaking his fear. "I didn't have any choice! It's not like I haven't tried to talk to you-"

Enlightenment suddenly widened John's eyes. "Jesus! My God, of course! This is why Dean's been so upset! Dean knew about this, didn't he?" John hollered. "This is his blood all over it, isn't it? When did you tell him about this?" John's temper soared as he thought about the effect this had had on Dean.

"The night he got sick," Sam murmured, unable to meet his father's eyes.

"What?" John barked, stepping closer.

"I told him the night he got sick, the last time I tried to talk to you!" Sam shot back, voice rising again. He straightened up and pushed away from the wall. "I would have told you but we never get that far with our little talks !" Sam was shaking with anger, "Anyone else would be proud that their son made it into Stanford! With a full ride, Dad! They even have a job lined up and a place for me to live!"

John's head snapped up, when he spoke his voice was low and intense. "We aren't anyone else, Sam! You know that. We have a job to do—"

Sam's furious gesture cut John off. "Jesus Christ, Dad! We have the job you forced us to do! When did I ever get a choice? This is all I've ever known. This is all Dean knows. Don't you think he might want something more than this? ThatI might want to make something more out of my life?" Sam head reeled as he heard the words he and John had screamed at each other again and again to no avail. Dean was right, no one was listening.

"Is this what Mom dreamed of for us?" Sam saw his father's face darken but he no longer cared. "One rat infested hole after another, getting the shit kicked out of us, bloody, beaten, searching for some dream demon that we're never going to find!" Sam was standing toe to toe with his father, screaming in his face.

John's hand cracked across Sam's face like a gunshot. The letter sailed across the room.

Sam fell back, grabbing his face, as shocked by the deed itself as the pain. His head rang dizzily. "Is that how it's gonna be?" Sam sneered, spitting blood out of his mouth. "You gonna hit me until I do what you want?" Daring him.

Rage fired John as he grabbed Sam by the shirt front, pulling him forward. "God dammit-"

Suddenly two arms rammed between them and Dean was there desperately trying to push them apart. "Stop it!" he cried hoarsely. "Don't do this!" John and Sam were too far gone at that point and Dean felt himself being shoved roughly away. Fabric tore as he clutched Sam's shirt. In his weakened state, the push sent him staggering into the wall, cracking his head soundly against the drywall. He cried out and slumped to the floor, coughing helplessly. Blood stained the wall where he had struck and was dripping from under his ear.

John released Sam so quickly Sam staggered back. John rushed over to Dean. "Dean! Jesus-" John lifted Deans head to see the damage. Dean kept coughing, unable to catch his breath.

When Sam tried to go to Dean, John stopped him with an arm extended like a sword. "If you want out of this family so badly, Sam, get your shit and get out! Right now! Walk out on us! Go to Stanford and your new home and your new job, but I'm telling you—if you do walk out that door—" John's voice fell to a low hiss. "Don't plan on coming back." John turned to Dean, trying to help him up and over to the table. Dean curled his aching head into his arms, still coughing from deep in his chest.

Sam stood there, breathing in smothered gasps, shaking uncontrollably, so enraged by John's ultimatum he couldn't think straight. Even his concern for Dean couldn't override it. His hands fisted at his sides. "Have it your way," he spat.

Dean heard the words, heard Sam storm down the hall and finally got his voice working again.

"NO!" he cried, clutching John. "Dad, no! Don't let him go!" He tried to get up, to go to their room and talk sense with Sam, but his legs wouldn't support him. John, breathing heavily and grim faced, was trying to wipe the blood from Dean's face.

"He made his choice, Dean." John replied, voice tight through his teeth. "Sit still. You're hurt."

Hurt? Jesus Christ Almighty, Sam's leaving! I'm not hurt, I'm dying…

In a very short time, Sam was back, red faced with blood shot eyes. His duffel bag was crammed full and he paused only briefly as he stalked through the room to the front door. The door slammed hard as he stomped out into the rain.

Dean suddenly pushed his father away, marveling at the strength that came when you needed it and scrambled to his feet after Sam. Caught by surprise, John fell back to the floor, yelling Dean's name.

"Sam, no!" Dean cried, blasting through the door after Sam. The chilling rain soaked him instantly as he stumbled barefooted through the mud. Sam heard him yell and stopped as Dean staggered up to him, coughing and shaking. "Sam, please…..for God's sake!"

Sam grabbed Dean's arms to keep him from falling. "Dean, go back in the house!" Sam yelled. "Don't be stupid! You'll end up back in the hospital!"

"Sam. Don't go! Dad didn't mean what he said!…please, God…don't leave …not like this!"

Dean's voice was panic stricken and his shaking hands caught Sam's ripped shirt.

Sam stared into Dean's frantic eyes. He shook his head gently. There was no coming back from this. "I don't have any choice," His voice was hollow. He couldn't look at Dean's face, the pain in his eyes. He pulled Dean to him in a crushing hug, feeling Dean shaking as he held him, drinking in his brother's scent, one more time. He could smell it, even in the rain.

"Sammy, no…" Dean begged. God, please don't do this….

"I have to go." he whispered into Dean's ear, his lips brushed Dean's burning forehead. He pulled Dean's hands loose from his shirt and stepped away. "Please, go back inside." He turned and walked into the darkness, his figure quickly swallowed up by the rain.

Dean staggered a few steps after him, but his strength failed him and he splashed to his knees on the muddy ground. He could hear John calling to him from the house.

Dean's wide green eyes stared at the lights from the distance, blinking as the rain gathered on his lashes and ran slowly down his face. He could no longer make out the words being shouted. He didn't realize he had wandered so far from the house. God, he was freezing and his joints ached. All wanted now was for the war to be over…

And then he realized, the war was over. He had lost. He had lost Sam.

From his knees it was a short trip to the ground. He lay on his back in the rain, shivering, choking. Heat rolled over him like a wave and he willingly let his mind go dancing after it as it swept through him. His eyes closed against the rain.

He was amazed to discover that it was possible for a heart that was already shattered to break.

He barely felt the desperate hands that he knew were John's trying to pull him to his feet. The only thing he felt was the unbearable pain as the last little piece of his wounded soul chipped away.

This is the end.


End file.
